On the same day that convicted paedophile Paul Gadd (a.k.a Gary Glitter) arrives at London Heathrow on a one-way ticket from Bangkok, I’m lying beside a swimming pool sucking on a cheroot and marvelling at the aesthetic beauty of a pair of ripening breasts as they dance seductively inside an overburdened sopping-wet black bikini. She’s stunning; blue eyes, shoulder-length wavy golden hair and a wide sensuous mouth. I have her down as a 34c (although given that this object of my desire is French, perhaps I should be thinking in continental sizes). She really is a knockout - jeux sans frontières indeed - I can certainly think of a few games I’d like to play. I give her my full attention as her eager fingertips skim from neckline to cleavage, delicately kneading orgasmically-charged flesh that ripples like a corn field in a warm breeze. Her nipples are becoming erect. She’s making it perfectly clear that she wants me. She turns her head briefly and says something incomprehensible to her mother. As I listen to her speak, the memories come flooding back.
  
   I was in a pub playing the slots when I had my first encounter with a mademoiselle. I’d stopped off for a quick pint or three on the way home from work and, at about 7:30, a coach-load of French schoolkids invaded the place. Amongst them was a young half-caste girl who immediately caught my eye; all I can really remember about her is that she had dark seductive eyes and sensuous lips. About ten minutes after their arrival I hit two jackpots in quick succession. The clunk-clunk of the slot machine as it discorged my winnings caused a small crowd of the French kids to gather ‘round me, one of which was the girl. I gave her a wink and she raised an eyebrow.
   “My friend likes you,” said one of the boys.
   “She doesn’t speak English?”
   “Non.”
   “Tell her that I like her too.” I spent the next twenty minutes in a quiet corner with my hand inside her blouse luxuriating in my first authentic French kiss. I recall that Wham’s A Different Corner was playing on the jukebox. ‘Take me back in time maybe I can forget, turn a different corner and we never would have met.’ I still love that song.
   It was certainly a different corner where my second French connection was concerned. We met in a nightclub in Croydon; I think it was called Cinatras. I bought her a couple of drinks and she invited me back to her place for afters. Afters indeed. After an eternity of Édith Piaf I finally managed to get her into bed, but as I went to mount her I felt a searing pain. That was the beginning of the end for my frenulum. Bleeding all over her bed sheets, I was too embarrassed and in too much pain to continue.
   Memories; some more pleasant than others. ‘Never stop the action - keep it up, keep it up. Love to the rhythm, slave to the rhythm.’

   The burning-hot African sun is momentarily diffused by swaying palm fronds as I scroll through the tracks on my iPod and select George Michael’s Father Figure. With my eyes concealed behind dark sunglasses I look on admiringly as ‘Brigitte’ applies a fresh coat of sun cream to the warm, yielding flesh of her curvy figure. Lust seeps from her pores like sweat. Perfect skies, perfect breasts and thighs… What more could a man ask for? Meanwhile, in the shallow end, three young Arabs are hitting on a six-year-old Irish lass; her mother too busy with a Jackie Collins and nicotine fix to notice.

   Over the years, dear old George has made quite a few cameo appearances in my sex life. In 1987 I was bedding an Oriental flower at the same time he was playing Mister Heterosexual with make-up artist Kathy Jeung. While George’s Chinese girlfriend went on to appear in the video to his hit song I Want Your Sex, mine appeared only in a couple of homemade films. Yim wasn’t big on intercourse but made up for it in other ways. Were I to suggest a song to accompany our video it would be called I Want Your Oral Sex.
   Back in the 80’s I seemed able to be fashionable without even trying. I was savouring the pleasures of an aspiring Swiss-German model named Yasmin a full two years before Simon Le Bon’s coupling with miss Parvaneh. At 6ft, my young would-be matched me inch for inch in more ways than one. Boy was she hungry like the wolf. She made another fine addition to my growing library of girls on film.

   I turn up the volume on my iPod; mixed with the sound of splashing water, George’s voice has an almost hypnotic effect.
   ‘That's all I wanted - something special, something sacred…’ All I want is to brighten up my holiday with a bit of fine French. I’m not looking for a meaningful relationship with Brigitte, nothing heavy. All I want to do is fuck her, long and hard until she screams. There’s something quite erotic about the tear-filled eyes of a young girl. This one looks to be about fifteen. No matter. She’s got a woman’s body so, as far as I’m concerned, that makes her fair game. And what a body! She really is in great shape; long legs, shapely hips, tight waist and those oh so ample breasts. The girl’s fit, and some day she’s going to make some lucky guy extremely happy; so why the hell shouldn’t that guy be me?
   ‘For just one moment, to be bold and naked at your side…’ Does it really matter whether she loses her virginity to a fifteen-year-old or a forty-five-year-old? To me it matters not. Whilst for her? The end result is the same - pop goes her cherry - excepting, of course, that she’ll be getting the benefit of my vast wealth of experience. She won’t be the first or last. I’ve broken the hearts of many a young virgin. And non, je ne regrette rien. Who knows, with kids these days rutting like mongrels on heat, it’s possible she’s already been introduced to the ways of carnal gratification; in which case I will be doing no more than furthering her education.
   ‘I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand in mine. I will be your preacher teacher, anything you have in mind…’ I will become tutor to a yearning pupil, instructing her in every delicious debauchery her mind can imagine. And more. Because with experience comes exquisite sensitivity.
   ‘But sometimes love can be mistaken for a crime…’ A crime? Can my intentions really be considered criminal? Worldwide, the age of consent ranges from as low as twelve to as high as twenty-one. If the world’s leaders can’t agree on what’s right and what’s wrong then why should I be held responsible for a few minor indiscretions? As far as I’m concerned, sex is sex, and as for it being illegal… well it all depends on where you happen to find yourself at any given moment. Why should I give a damn if she’s under age? I’ve got an erection that needs some TLC. Someone send for a night nurse.
   ‘If you ever hunger - hunger for me. Whatever you ask for, that's what I'll be…’ Experience isn’t the only weapon in my armoury, there’s my charm, wit, and swarthy good looks. And, if all else fails, the adroit palming of Special K into a cocktail usually has the desired effect. Not that It’ll be necessary with this one. She’s definitely putting out all the right signals and really couldn’t make it any more obvious that she’s up for it.
   ‘Greet me with the eyes of a child - heaven is a kiss and a smile. I'll be your daddy…’

   In the evening, the palm fronds frame a sunset sky where the clouds are pink candyfloss; I imagine her placing the sticky threads between her succulent lips. I try to masturbate; but I’m too worked up and can’t climax. After twenty minutes I feel a migraine coming on and so resign myself to fitful sleep; wherein I seduce a raven-haired temptress who I vaguely recall from somewhere in my past.
   ‘Sometimes I think that you’ll never understand me…’